Midsummer Murders
by Mojoflower
Summary: Scattered across the English countryside, hundreds of people are camping, dancing, singing... and some of them are dying. How will this relate to John, and the egg he currently nurtures? Chasing summer festivals on the trail of a murderer, tripping over hints of a 20-year-old crime ring, learning anew about one another, John and Sherlock dedicate themselves to untangling the case.
1. The Wait

**A/N: **This is the long-awaited sequel to Murderous Imprint. It's been a wild and busy year, and I'm grateful y'all have been so patient! If you haven't read Murderous Imprint yet (or if you've forgotten most of it), you'll want to do that first. This story picks up almost 6 months after the events of the first story. I dedicate it to all my readers: you have been so enormously enthusiastic and supportive and encouraging. I had no idea that writing could be such a fun and rewarding thing, and you all remind me of why it's worth the time and the energy to keep doing it. Thank you so much for following along.

ScienceofObsession and Snogandagrope are joining me again as my betas-extraordinaire, and all the tight plot-points and streamlined writing you may attribute to their skill and dedication. I'll try to update no later than once every two weeks, and hopefully more frequently than that. We shall see.

I have already been given art for this story! Kayjaykayme and Stitchy have done some fabulous things, and you can find them on the AO3 site for this story or on my Tumblr account. The one for this first chapter is by Kayjaykayme, so y'all should go shower her with lovely compliments when you've seen it.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: The Wait<strong>

The egg is enormous, fully a meter from tip to tip, crowding the bed where it lies. It is situated in a place of honor, placed carefully in a rather ancient, awful puce afghan nest, hemmed in by pillows. Some days, it seems to John to emanate a slight air of entitlement which whimsically reminds him of Sherlock. The light of the February morning outside is gray and cold, but the egg looks lusciously warm, basking under two heat lamps, with a space heater humming from the floor. Its shell is rigid, lightly textured, mottled in greys, from deep charcoal to dove, and speckled and swirled with highlights of aubergine.

John usually sits beside it, curled against his own pillow, tea steaming on the night table next to him. The lounge has lost its appeal in favor of the bedroom, and if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson stopping by occasionally to dust, it would probably have the musty air of a room long abandoned. He keeps a small speaker in the egg-nest, and hooks it up to the music he has stored on his phone (primarily classical, featuring the violin), and the safe den of their bedroom is warm and soothing. A welcoming environment for Sherlock to hatch into, when the time comes.

One hand taps a well-thumbed notebook titled _Incubation Procedures for Optimum Hatchability_, and the other rests on the egg. He carried it up from the basement almost two weeks ago, and cares for it assiduously every day. He has just finished the first round of daily rotations, has misted the shell with warm water to keep it at the proper humidity.

Several times a day, John itches to ask Mrs. Hudson what she knows. After all, she is the one who sent him downstairs on that fateful, beautiful, terrifying day. And she had done the same with Sherlock, fourteen months earlier, when he had discovered John's egg, warm and alive in the basement. Surely she knows _something_.

His wary hints are either too subtle, or Mrs. Hudson is not going to answer him regardless. He mentally shrugs and carries on, babying the egg, rearranging heating lamps, recording all the data he can on the unused pages of Sherlock's _Incubation_ notebook.

The timing for this go-round is a bit off, and so does not completely parallel the previous hatching experience. John had hatched almost exactly four months after his death; Sherlock had incubated John's egg for a bit more than three months. Sherlock had died five months ago already, and John has cared for the egg for only 13 days. Had it sat in the basement flat for weeks, possibly months before John found it? He cannot know for sure, and it is frustrating not having comparable timelines for both eggs. John does not consider himself to be a scientist, preferring to leave the experimenting to Sherlock, and finds this open-ended uncertainty to be both baffling and discouraging.

John is generally infused with a sense of cautious optimism, a wary joy and sharp-edged hope. How can the egg be anything _but_ Sherlock? The timing, the coloring, the very fact that he _himself_ had hatched, brought up from the very same basement after his own death; these are all reassuring facts. There is a faint tug, behind his breastbone, brand new and as ephemeral as the wall of a soap bubble. It reminds him of Sherlock, gently echoes the flavor of the imprinting bond they had shared.

And _yet_.

It is, after all, a huge leap of faith that the egg will produce Sherlock. That it will produce _any_ human. And if it does… what are the odds that it will be the Sherlock that he knew? Everything he has done for the past two weeks is based on no more than a hope and a prayer. As much as his life had crashed to pieces in those stark, terrible months following Sherlock's fall, it had the potential to do so all over again, depending on what, if anything, breaks through the fragile calcium of the shell.

Tonight he is meeting Greg Lestrade, with whom he had become friends over the eight months that Sherlock and he had consulted with the Met... before Sherlock plummeted to his death. He dreads it. He doesn't want to sit in a pub, raising a glass to Sherlock's memory when he hopes sincerely that Sherlock is _right here in the flat_. He doesn't want to hold his tongue, when the need to confide is clawing at his seams. He doesn't want to maunder over _Why did he jump?_ as they drink a pint.

Why did he jump, indeed? They'd found the body of Moriarty, dead of a clearly self-inflicted gunshot-wound on the roof. Why did he jump? Why did he call John? Was he hoping John would catch him? Because if that was Sherlock's plan, if John flying up to meet Sherlock halfway down the walls of St. Barts was his plan, than that day embodies the most traumatic, epic failure of John's life.

Usually John can keep such thoughts at bay. But there are days when they creep upon him, his _bad days_, when he is blindsided by doubt and despair.

As he gets ready to go to the pub, he shaves with deliberately quick, determined strokes, trying to infuse his body with enthusiasm and optimism and from there hoping it will permeate his mind. Heavy circles beneath tired eyes inform him that it isn't likely to work tonight. He puts on a cheerful red jumper nonetheless. He doesn't want Greg to worry too much about him. Greg has a rather paternal nature and has kept a concerned eye on him after Sherlock's harrowing fall. John thinks Greg might be concerned that he'll jump himself, or do something equally rash and fatal. John does not like to dwell on the fact that during those first months, before he found the egg, Greg's foreboding may have been more accurate than not.

The visit at the pub goes about as well as John had glumly predicted. Greg is sympathetic, supportive and as irritating as a burr. No matter what Greg says, whether it is eulogizing Sherlock or an enthusiastic recap of Manchester's latest game, John's wretched internal desire is to violently sweep the pitcher and glasses off the table and scream, _I don't believe that Sherlock is dead!_

He cuts the night short abruptly, and Greg says goodnight in a puzzled, worried way. John stops on the way home to pick up a fifth of scotch and drinks half of it, sitting drearily at the foot of the bed, maudlin and frightened of the uncertainties which face him.

When he finally stands up, it is nearing midnight, and John staggers sharply as the alcohol suddenly hits him. Turning to alcohol in these times is a sick, needy, _dangerous_ thing to do, but John is not always as strong as he would like to be. It is as if his hope needs watering, from time to time.

He stumbles to the kitchen and pours the last of the scotch down the sink, disgusted with himself and _aching_ with loneliness. His left eyelid keeps twitching, it is utterly annoying, and his hand shakes a bit as he chucks the drained bottle into the bin. The kitchen reeks of the stale smell of this morning's burned toast, and John's stomach churns in protest. He snaps his wings out and begins a clumsy flapping, thinking to disperse the odor. Great gusts of air thunder in the small room and massive wings catch on the table and chairs, knocking a mug off the counter with a crash; paper napkins accumulated from too many nights of takeaway begin to swirl like a localized snowstorm.

John grimaces at his disarrayed feathers when he is done. What a stupid thing to do: there is no space in the kitchen for this sort of thing. He has not fully extended his wings since Sherlock… died. Doing so would only make him sad, now that there is no admiring partner to croon over their beauty; no one to stroke through his feathers; to teasingly ruffle through down and lesser coverts. No one remains to blow hot breath against the skin underneath, until John is sensitized and heady with it.

Now his primaries are bent, and he thinks one swept through the butter. Ugh.

He washes his hands because they smell like liquor and walks, overly-careful, to the loo to brush his teeth. His wings are held close to his body, hunched up around his ears, and the tips drag along the carpet. He's drunk and ashamed of himself; not angry, but _hollow_. And so lonely it hurts. It seems that there is a black hole in his chest, a sucking chasm carved out around a gentle thrumming strand. The strand connects him to Sherlock, he is sure of it. It seems as if it has been growing stronger over the scant weeks he has cared for the egg, but it is so fragile, an evanescent echo of the bond they used to share.

It is such a precarious, breakable thing, swallowed in the darkness. John is terrified, almost daily, that he could be wrong. That he may simply be hallucinating hope for himself. Because... Who knows, really? Who _knows_ what is in the egg? Just because its patterned colors make him think of Sherlock in a suit, the bright flashes of aubergine against the myriad shades of gray mottling the shell, that does not reliably indicate that it is _Sherlock_ in the egg.

And even the days where he's comfortable, the days when he's confident in the warm hum of the gossamer strand stretching between the egg and himself, he is still afraid. His heart tells him it is Sherlock in there. But who is to say what he will be like when he hatches? What if the fall damaged him? Severe head trauma such as that which killed Sherlock would surely have led to brain damage if he had survived. Will he hatch with that? John cannot help but remember the phantom pain from his wounds in Afghanistan which plagued him between the sudden, shocking loss of Sherlock's death and the moment he found the egg in the basement apartment. Extrapolating from that, the injuries that death dealt _could indeed_ affect Sherlock in some way.

What if Sherlock hatches, but he is no longer the Sherlock that John knew? What if his brilliance is gone, his quirky affection, his irrepressible vivacity? What if he is no longer characterized by the voracious appetite with which he devours the world, seeking to uncover and interpret pure information, to weave together what everyone else sees as disparate? What if he… has no connection to John anymore?

He swings towards the bedroom, and the flat swings with him, sickeningly detached; he has to freeze momentarily for it to settle back into the normal arrangement of walls and floor, horizontal meeting vertical at customary right angles. Feathers brush the hallway walls as he automatically uses his wings to correct his balance.

He shuts the bedroom door behind him and locks it tight. He turns on the bedside lamp, adding gentle golden light to the more clinical glare of the heat lamps. The egg is a massive thing, nested on Sherlock's side of the bed. He has got blankets beside it, acting as a barrier to it pitching off the edge, and there are several more on the floor, just in case they're needed to soften a fall.

John winces at the thought of another fall, and rapidly blinks against the image of a pale face, dulled eyes, the shocking brush strokes of red and the shattering pain in his chest.

He pulls his wings in tight, crawls up to his own pillow and lounges on his side, head propped on a fist. He curls towards the egg in a pose so familiar to him after the past couple of weeks that he no longer even thinks about it. He touches his head to the warm shell, presses his face to it, rolling slightly to achieve contact: forehead, nose, mouth, chin. His upper hand reaches out, tracing a swirl of gray, and he speaks with his lips moving on the pitted surface of the egg. "I miss you," he says, and his voice is broken and low and wheezy with anguish. "Sherlock. I miss you so much. I need you to-. I wish you could-. I wish I knew for sure..."

He runs his hand across the long length of the egg, reaches the rounded end near his knees and tugs the behemoth closer into the curve of his body. There is a flutter and a flurry behind him, and his uppermost wing stretches out, swoops delicately forward until it encloses John and the egg in a sheltered space. John fluffs his down and ripples his feathers. He's felt absurd doing this before. For god's sake, is he no more than a brooding hen? But brooding or no, it makes him feel better to cover the egg, to sweep it into the shelter of his wing, to keep it warm and safe.

He hugs the egg close. "Are you in there, Sherlock? Can you hear me?" He kisses the shell, cooler than human flesh, harder; a sad, unyielding substitute. He closes his eyes. Focuses on Sherlock as he saw him that final morning: dressed in a sleek, slim suit, dapper and confident and as oblivious of his exquisite beauty as he always has been. John presses a hand to the shell and pretends it is Sherlock's chest, that he is flicking open buttons, that the taut surface against his palm is hot, living skin.

He lays another kiss on the egg, begins to murmur things, wings trembling and settling in a rhythmic pattern. "When you come out, when you know who I am-. God I hope you know who I am. I hope you know who _you_ are." He lets his lips trail wetly down the gentle curve, the soft interior flesh of his mouth damp against calcium that could almost, _almost_ be a pale pectoral. His groin tightens as he slips his tongue out to taste. He ignores the slightly chalky flavor, imagining that it's salt and the unique scent of Sherlock: laundered cotton with that faint undertone of formaldehyde, making John oddly nostalgic about flash-patter deductions in the morgue of St. Barts. He always got uncomfortably close to an erection while witnessing the rapid flow of brilliant analysis from his flatmate. He presses his hand briefly against his cock, lips parted on a silent mewl.

He strokes the shell again, pressing the pads of his fingers in tight, until he can feel the ridges of his fingerprints, the pushback of callus skittering over the lustrous curve under his hand. How he longs for soft curls, the tickling sweep of eyelashes against his skin, the proud prominence of an angled cheekbone. He pulls the egg closer to his body, thinking of sharp scapulae, of the way his fingers could slide into the indents between ribs which would appear as Sherlock sighed or gasped.

The ache of missing Sherlock turns into a wanton reverie about the man. He lifts his knee, rests it against the top edge of the egg, giving his burgeoning erection room to grow. "I'm going to keep you naked when you finally hatch, Sherlock," he murmurs, forehead tightly pressed to the egg. "I haven't seen you in so long. I'm going to keep you naked and push you right back onto this bed. I want to see-" He rolls a bit, so he isn't crushing his other wing, and then slides up to his knees, kneels at the base of the egg, and lets his feathered appendages beat as they yearn to do. The bedroom has long since been cleared of the knickknacks and paraphernalia which would fall prey to the flapping in which he indulges during sex. Golden brown feathers are a flash over his shoulder, brushing the walls in his peripheral vision; but his focus is on the blurred chiaroscuro of the shell, and the alcohol fuels lust, burning hot and uninhibited in his veins.

His cock clamors its enthusiasm, and John is lost to his own heat. With one hand firmly on the egg, he opens his flies with the other, clumsily dragging down his pants until his erection springs free, bobbing in the air.

"Sherlock," he leans his weight forward a bit, thumb rubbing circles on the shell, other hand stroking himself without finesse, body beginning to flinch and shudder as he tugs at himself. He thinks of Sherlock curled inside the egg, staring at him with his disconcertingly light eyes, hair tousled, tangling around his ears, highlighting porcelain skin. He envisions the long, lean body contorted into a ball, strokes his hand down the shell until it rests over where Sherlock's arse might be: juicy, round, tempting.

His chest heaves, and the punishing jerks he applies to his cock morph into a fist that he can fuck, leaning his weight on the egg, rutting hard into his own hand and growling, wings protectively arched high over his back, wingtips shaped into a strong parabola so that they enfold both him and the egg, quivering.

"I want you under me, Sherlock. Want to flip you over. Need to- _huh_ - open you up-" he can feel it racing along his nerves: the tension, the electricity. The fine hairs rise on his body; he feels the prickling of oversensitized skin, the raging, unstoppable heat. And he pretends; he dreams. The spot in his chest where he faintly feels Sherlock begins to ache and itch and grow warm. He grunts, lips chapped and parted, eyes slitted open only enough to keep the egg in his view: the charcoal, the purple, the sensual curve of its shape. His fist is hot, but he believes that inside Sherlock would be even hotter: an act he can only imagine, one they'd never gotten around to. "You need to- You need to _belong to me-_ Ah-"

The alcohol in his system has slowed down his response, but is eventually overcome by desperation, by need and overwhelming sensation, by a fertile flight of fancy, by a corroborating tsunami in that place beneath his sternum-

And when he finally comes, jetting crass stripes of white across that enticing shell, the egg itself rocks. John can feel the pulse and throb of it under his restraining hand, and lazy satisfaction blooms throughout his chest.

He kneels there, back curled, wings flared and rippling, cock still hard in his hand, staring at the pattern of semen on the egg, at the cooling streaks of it across his fingers. He licks his lips, eyes heavy with repletion. Kicking the remainder of his self-respect to the kerb, he runs his hand through the mess, feeling it soak into the crevices of his skin, smearing it across the broad shell of Sherlock's egg until it is no more than a sticky, unseen layer. He flaps his wings one last time, licks the palm of his hand, bitter with his emissions and chalky from the shell, and has no room for shame, floating on the satiated, growing link between him and the egg. He smirks a bit at the buzzing sensation of the link, and smugly, ironically, ponders the _scientific necessity_ of continuing to feed the nascent bond in such an… enjoyable… fashion.

The alcohol soon reasserts its effects, and the room spins around John again. He fumbles his pants and trousers up a bit, gives up on fastening the flies, and falls to his side next to the egg, careful of his wings, high on the smell of his own sex. "You belong to me," he whispers. He spreads the uppermost wing over the egg, umbrella-like, and lets it settle. He fluffs the bits of down that have been accumulating at the base of the egg; these smallest, softest of his molted feathers have been blown around by the flapping wings. He tucks them in a ring around the base, scooting blankets closer in, and then drops into a heavy, dreamless slumber, anguish released.


	2. Things With Wings

**A/N:** Thanks again to my betas ScienceofObsession and Snogandagrope: I'm _so_ lucky to have them (their turn-around time is _very_ fast, which is good, because I'm terribly impatient.) I have two pictures for this chapter. I'll discuss them in the end notes, because I don't want to give anything away…. But we can thank KayJayKayMe and JillandSarah for the fab pictures.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Things With Wings<strong>

John has taken to carrying Mrs. Hudson's rubbish to the bins, along with his own. Not only because he has the distinct impression that he owes his landlady more than he could ever admit to, but also because of the distraction provided by his new friend. A young cat. Or a mature kitten. It's hard to tell: he's a doctor, not a vet.

She's petite, with long hair, ginger and white with spots and streaks of tabby. He believes she'd be described as a calico. She's very graceful, and crouches on top of a bin waiting for him every morning, feathery tail lashing, eyes round and excited. He will set a bit of leftover meat under her pink nose, and she will delicately devour it, neatly cleaning face and paws afterward. Meanwhile, he will go fetch Mrs. Hudson's bags as well, and when he comes back out, he will toss a foil ball down the narrow alley.

The cat will spring into action, darting off in a streak of mischievous white and orange, and then come prancing back, tail high like a furry flag, ball proudly held in her jaws, to drop it somewhere within a meter-radius of John's feet. He will pick it up and throw it again.

The game started by accident, with wadded up foil that had covered the last night's gyro escaping the bag and rolling down the step. John has never heard of a cat playing fetch, but that is obviously what is happening.

He is happy to have a friend. It is lonely, waiting for his Sherlock-egg to hatch, in spite of the occasional outing with Greg. He finds that his circle of acquaintances has grown smaller and smaller since Sherlock's death. He has as little in common with Harry as he always has. He had contacted her several months after he hatched, and she had not taken Mycroft's carefully crafted cover story well at all. Their meetings are brief and awkward. He is always relieved to go home afterward.

There is always Mrs. Hudson, of course, who smiles at him, and makes very few references to his dead flatmate, which he appreciates. (And also finds suspicious, but… she can be remarkably tight-lipped when she wishes. John's respect for her has grown in leaps and bounds in the past month.) But loneliness hangs around him like a miasma, until his chest aches with it.

"Heeey, little moggy," he retrieves the crackling ball and holds it against thumb and forefinger nailbed, ready to flick it away again. "Good morning." He sits on the stoop, ignoring the malodorous contribution of the rubbish bins to the atmosphere, and plays fetch with the tiny stray for some time. Eventually, as she does on most days, she curls up between his brown leather loafers, batting idly at a shoelace, and he's allowed to stroke her. She's unbelievably soft, and he marvels every time that a street cat such as this can keep such long, thick hair so pristine.

A few weeks later, she stops coming, and John doesn't see her again. He asks Mrs. Hudson, but the landlady just looks at him strangely and says she never met the little creature. John is sad, and worried, and even buys a few cans of proper cat food, leaving it in dishes on the stoop. Other cats stop by, but not his special little friend, and he takes to frowning as he hauls out the rubbish.

And then. One day.

He finds an egg.

It is tucked behind the largest bin, hidden in the shadow, and he doesn't notice it until he almost kicks it away by accident. He sucks in a shocked breath, and time freezes as he processes what he is seeing.

The egg is a bit larger than an ostrich egg, a gingery-brown speckled with white. He looks rapidly up and down the short alley, which is empty, as usual. He drops his bag into the bin and scoops the egg up, carefully but quickly, filled with excitement and wonder. Could it be? _Can it be?_

He darts back into the flat and flings himself up the stairs, cradling the strange egg against his body, and rushes into the bedroom. "Sherlock! Sherlock," he cries. "Look! Oh my god. I can't believe-. I mean, how impossible is _this_. And yet-"

He nestles the small egg, weighing no more than half a stone, in the shadow of the much larger egg already on the bed, and begins to rearrange the blankets so that they share the little nest. He moves the heat lamp so that it's closer to the smaller egg, worried because it had been outside in the February cold for he he cannot guess how long. He excitedly rotates both eggs (the notes in Sherlock's lab book from John's own hatching are adamant in reminding him that eggs need to be rotated so that the bodies that form within them don't begin to develop their internal organs on the _outside_ of their skin). He runs curious fingers around the shell.

Another month passes. Candling shows that the body inside the smaller egg is nearly solid. John's excitement grows, and he hurries out of the flat only for necessities such as tea and milk and bread, rushing back in case he misses the hatching. He has no idea how long it may take, but is unsurprised that what he _can_ measure shows that the little egg is developing much more rapidly than the other. It is, after all, growing something only 1/10th the size.

It is midmorning on a Thursday, when the egg begins to rock, clicking against its bigger counterpart. John carefully puts a little distance between the two, and makes sure there is a towel under the egg, to catch any mess. He waits with bated breath.

It takes half a day, the egg twitching and rocking, annoyed scratching noises coming from within. Eventually, a claw breaks through, and after that the process is very quick, more scraping claws, the ejection of a leg with draggled wet fur clinging to the flesh and muscle beneath. Once the shell is first breached, it is only a matter of ten minutes or so before the creature itself is free.

John stares in awed astonishment as the cat he knew begins to take shape under a busy pink tongue, cleaning up the slime and residue from the egg. Same kitty. Marmalade and brown on top, pure white along nose and neck and belly. And awkwardly stretching over her back, two dark, feathered wings. John catches his breath, and reaches forward with a tentative finger.

She pulls back, startled, and staggers a bit, falling clumsily onto her side, and her wings tangle with her tail as she struggles to get back onto her haunches. She lets out a little _mew_ that is scarcely more audible than a mere exhalation; and John recognizes that invisible meow from weeks spent together in the alley. He reaches forward and closes her between his two hands, sitting her upright and holding her steady until she seems to have recovered her balance. She stares at him for a long, solemn moment before returning her focus to hygiene. Her bath is sketchy at best, she wobbles and misses large patches, and the occasionally spasming wings are not helping.

John goes to the loo and gets a damp flannel, determined to help. She seems rather like a newborn kitten, although her eyes are open, and she's the same size she was before. (Minus, of course, the incredible wings.) John plays mama cat, stroking over the areas she can't reach, and murmuring encouraging nonsense to her as her fur slowly dries. He carefully runs the flannel over the feathers as well, clearing off the albumen.

"You need a name," he murmurs. "Moggy just doesn't seem exotic enough now that you've got feathers, too. You're like the griffin version of a cat. A cat-griffin. A house-griffin," he amends, because there is no way this little creature can ever be allowed outside after such a startling and implausible transformation. "I'll just call you Griffin, then, shall I? Who knew I'd ever have a domesticated mini-griffin?"

She is not, technically, a griffin. She is simply, as far as he can tell, a cat with wings. Just as he is not some kind of male harpy, but merely a man with wings. Griffins, he knows, are supposed to have bird heads (something deadly and noble he thinks: hawk? eagle?) and bird feet on the front. And the back end would be a lion. So, really. No. Not a griffin. Good enough for government work, though, he muses, and then frowns, thinking of Mycroft.

Because of his regular flat-sweeps these days, forewarned and paranoid, he feels confident that Mycroft likely knows nothing of little Griffin, and plans on keeping it that way. John remembers when he had found a tiny wireless microvideo camera, after Mycroft had stopped by six weeks earlier to question him about the giant egg in his bedroom. John had nearly lost it, upset that Mycroft had him under surveillance. More than that, he was upset because what went on in the bedroom between him and the egg, Sherlock's egg, was intensely private. He talked to it, sang to it, slept with it and sometimes, when he felt lonely, or horny, or desperate, he shared other needs with it as well. None of which were Mycroft's damn business. John was mortified.

Mycroft's stuffy discomfort had been obvious, although he clearly was willing to overcome it in order to confront John about his supernatural bedmate. Mycroft _knows_ about eggs, of course, it had not taken him more than twenty minutes, after meeting Sherlock's new flatmate, to learn of John's rather peculiar history. Sherlock had ultimately even shown Mycroft his scientific documentation of the incubation and hatching.

And, of course, Mycroft already had CCTV documentation of John's most unusual… traits. So John _knew_ he could be considered reliable. If he could be trusted not to reveal John's secret, and even suppress evidence of it so others wouldn't find out, then John knew his own brother was at the very least just as safe with him as John was.

Upon confirmation that John believed the egg to contain Sherlock, Mycroft was quite happy to set aside his sorrow at Sherlock's loss. He had assured John, in a pompous, uncomfortable way, that his resources would be at John's disposal, should he need, and that he hoped that the egg would be well-looked-after. John didn't want to _share_ Sherlock. He felt fiercely protective of and possessive about the egg. But he had to yield to both inevitability and practicality.

John's first demand was that the privacy of their flat was sacrosanct, because how the hell else had Mycroft known about the egg? His other condition was that Mycroft back off. Mycroft had wanted to run his own tests; John could see that it bothered him excessively that there was something going on that he didn't know about, couldn't find the answer to. John had no doubt that Mycroft had had a strictly muzzled government scientist or two investigating his _own_ egg, and probably Mycroft knew more about it then John did. But John pulled out the trump card of the imprinting bond, explained that he _had_ to be the caretaker, and Mycroft was familiar enough with his brother to realize that Sherlock would definitely side with John. He'd reluctantly backed down.

As soon as Mycroft had made his cautious way down the stairs, John had leapt to his feet and done a thorough sweep of the house. He had found more surveillance devices in the livingroom, the kitchen, and the bedroom. He was relieved to find nothing in the bathroom: that was a small comfort, though, considering what Mycroft had surely seen happening on the bed. The invasiveness of the act was truly staggering, and John wondered in a panic how long the cameras had been there. Had Mycroft been peeping when Sherlock had been alive? Had he seen them making love, or playing games? The thought made him literally ill, gray with humiliation and anger. He had felt so violated!

Now he does a sweep of the flat whenever he's left it, checking corners and crannies for any audio or video devices. So far, he has found nothing, and is happy that Mycroft won't know about Griffin, because unlike Mycroft's brother, the cat could be seen as little more than a test subject, one to whom he has no emotional attachment or fraternal responsibility, and John doesn't want to calculate her chances of a happy life if Mycroft's horde of Baskerville researchers get their amoral gloved hands on her.

She lies down on the bed now, clearly worn out from a long day of hatching. She is clean and drying, and falls instantly asleep, wings sliding down to wrap around her tiny body. Her tail covers her nose, and John smiles at the picture. He scoops her back a bit, and tucks her next to the bigger egg, back in the blanket nest. Green eyes sleepily flash, before shutting again. A purr so delicate that he can feel but not hear it emanates from the little ball of fur and feathers. John is content.

Time does its weird thing, where the clock seems to leap ahead by hours, and then freeze until the second hand is fighting its way through molasses, and even breathing seems to drag on for minutes and minutes. John goes through a lot of tea. He spends most of his time in the flat, both because of the awful weather as winter slowly turns into a miserably wet and chilly spring; and also because it is much more fun now that Griffin is living with him.

She remains as playful as she had been out in the alley, and doesn't seem to resent her transition to house cat. House… griffin. She's never far from John, often touching his body, gently vibrating with her inaudible purr. She watches him constantly, focused or meditative or on the border of sleep. John discovers that he always knows where she is, a tiny part of him stretching towards her, even when he leaves the flat for short periods. He figures that it might be an imprinting bond, and makes a note of it in the lab book, but can't think of any experiments to do or insightful comments about it, so leaves it at that.

It takes her over a week to figure out her wings. She continues to play fetch, and 221B slowly becomes littered with little silver balls. John will toss one around the corner of the kitchen door, and Griffin will chase it down, scrabbling with desperate claws to shift her momentum as she skids around the doorway, wings flaring out to assist. Sometimes she will lift a bit off the floor, controlling her flapping.

Thinking of Sherlock, and his meticulous experiments, John starts a new entry, near the back of _Optimal Hatchability_, titled _Learning to Fly_. He notes when Griffin hatched, and that she could run and walk and play and eat within 24 hours. She preens her feathers with her tongue, along with her fur, and that seems to work just fine. When she stretches, her wings stretch, too, out and back, continuing the supple line of her body, but she doesn't do much more with them than stretch, groom and correct her balance as she runs and jumps. John has never seen them disappear, fading into _Elsewhere_ as he generally does with his own.

John starts throwing the foil balls _up_, onto the bookshelves and counters, and Griffin immediately adapts, giving her body an additional boost with her wings as she launches herself upwards. By day 8, she is using the wings to glide downward, and coast from the tops of the bookshelves, to the refrigerator, over to where John is, pushing again off his head or shoulder, four pink-toed paws curled gently to her belly.

She loves to sit on his shoulder as he reads, or painstakingly types entries into his blog. (He wishes he could write about the eggs, but knows that would be a terrible idea. Instead, he covers cases Sherlock and he had solved before Sherlock's death.) He hunts and pecks, and switches tabs to keep abreast of an installment of mystery stories he's following. Griffin digs her sharp claws into his neck and stretches forward, bumping his chin sharply with her head, flapping her little wings next to his ear, demanding attention.

John grins and shakes out his own wings. The living room is arranged with a large space free of furniture in the middle, enough that he can stretch out his wings full length, if he is careful. Griffin loves them, chases his primaries as he twitches them along the floor. Sometimes she will keep her shoulder perch and begin the arduous and endless task of grooming his feathers, where they adjoin to his back and rise above his shoulders.

John is impressed with her tenacity: he does not think he would like to lick something clean that is basically the size of a wardrobe or refrigerator. It tickles when she does it, but does not arouse him the way Sherlock's fingers have always done or make him ill and repulsed the way others' touch does. He wonders if this, too, has to do with imprinting. He plucks a furry little toy mouse from his pocket and tosses it into the air. Griffin launches off his shoulder and grabs it in midflight; with her prize caught proudly in her jaws, she flutters to the mantel over the fireplace and perches there, curled against the skull, eyes bright and staring mischievously at him as if daring him to take flight as well.

John laughs. Not going to happen. Then he frowns, because he and Sherlock had only been out to the family estate a few times, in all their months together. John had gotten better at flying during those several visits, given the space to practice, and his arm and chest muscles grew more developed than they had been since the Army, carrying Sherlock with him as he flew.

He closes his eyes for a moment, experiencing a vivid sense memory:

... It is unseasonably cold for early October. The air rushes past his face, whistles in his ears, the chill of a nighttime fog clings heavily to his wings as he launches himself from an attic window of the giant old house, Sherlock clutched in his arms. John is illuminated, straining, and yet enjoys the deep pull of muscle in wing and chest. The smooth cold skin of Sherlock's face presses against his cheek, warm breath instantly cooling against his neck.

He dives for a bit, and then pulls back up, the quiet _whump_ of air under his cupped wings quickly dispersing into the dark night. He revels in Sherlock's sharp gasp as they drop, in his slight hitching laugh as John stops their fall and begins to climb once again.

They fly for an hour, swooping in lazy circles over the estate, catching the reflection of a waning moon on the small pond, glittering black below them. Sherlock finally shifts in his arms, turns to face him more completely, presses them together chest to chest, tangling long legs around John's hips, holding on tightly, icy hands worming under his jacket to terrorize his warm skin.

John clutches harder around the slender man, gasps, "Sherlock, you prat, hold _on!_ For god's sake-" and he maneuvers them to a more upright position, lifts one knee between Sherlock's legs, ostensibly to support him there. Sherlock smirks and grinds an unmistakable erection into his thigh, and John loses his concentration. They hover in mid air, mouth to mouth, frenzied kisses and taut bodies, wings straining to support them both in the sky.

John holds Sherlock too tightly, worries that he may drop him if he shifts his grip, and spirals downwards, eyes slitted against the wind to be sure they are aimed at the courtyard below. They fall the last few feet in a mad flurry of feathers, brokenly coming to rest in a spilled tumble, John gasping with laughter as Sherlock sucks hard on his neck. "Sherlock-!"

"Come _on_, John!" Sherlock rumbles, buttery voice filled with sly challenge.

The staff is gone for the weekend, no one to see them as they stagger inside. John's wings flare through the door, brushing against both sides of the great hall within, gusting the air so that the crystal droplets on the chandelier above sing and chime.

Sherlock spins in his arms before he has a chance to catch his breath; long, cold fingers tuck into his trousers, fumble at his belt. "God, I love it when you fly," he mumbles, tugging leather through the loop and flicking through the button and the zip. He drops gracefully to his knees, swimming in a pool of wool, and looks up at John, cheeks rosy from wind and cold; eyes alight and green with arousal, pupils enormous black holes in the white frame of his face; hair disheveled from the wind, curling unrestrainedly from the fog.

John stretches out his wings, cock growing fully hard, enchanted with the man at his feet. Sherlock impatiently tugs down his trousers and then presses his icy face against the front of John's pants, against the hard column of flesh poorly concealed behind it.

"Oi," John gasps, jerking at the sensation. "Cold!"

Sherlock grins again, lascivious and playful, and rubs his hands briskly and considerately together for warmth as he works John's pants down with his teeth. John helps, lowering the elastic over the curve of his arse, adding a shimmy to help the stretchy red fabric drop to his knees, spreading his legs a bit within the confines of his trousers.

Sherlock first simply breathes on his cock, which jumps forwards eagerly, pointing at his mouth, and John puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, grunting in anticipation, wings swishing behind him. Sherlock wastes no time, engulfing him without build-up, mouth like lava against his cool skin, moving swiftly down the shaft until John bumps up against the back of his throat. Sherlock's long fingers clench on his thighs for a moment, then move further back to bury themselves in his underwing coverts scratching down to tease at the root of each feather, tugging against the grain in a way that makes John shudder, clamping his hands in Sherlock's hair, scratching back, scarcely refraining from pulling that tousled black head in further, and fucking into pink lips with the abandon he craves.

Sherlock swallows and hums, licking and sucking, digging his hands through John's feathers, rocking in and out with his entire body. John moans, body warming to the point where Sherlock's fingers feel cool and wonderful carding through his feathers; the chilled skin of Sherlock's face feels calming against his feverish belly and thighs.

"Unh, that's right," he mutters, thrusts becoming erratic, etiquette leaving him, wrenching Sherlock forward and back at the behest of his body's desire. Sherlock growls around his cock, looking up at John whenever he can pull back far enough, tongue worrying the knot of his frenulum, swallowing around the head when it goes deeper, hands slipping from feathers to grip his arse.

John keeps his eyes on Sherlock's, fierce and covetous, primal and possessive; on flawless skin, on black-fringed eyes blown with desire, on sharp cheekbones, on the stretched bow of his mouth, kneeling before his cock. And that is all he can take. He jerks Sherlock's head close enough to feel him pressed up against his abdomen, holds him still, Sherlock's gag reflex working to milk him of ejaculate. Orgasm spasms through his entire being, electrifying him, lifting each feather individually, each hair of his body, shivers and heat raking across his skin, fingers clutching hard, hips locked and wings held high, frozen in release.

Then he loosens his grip, allows Sherlock to pull away, coughing and smirking, wiping shiny lips and chin with the back of one elegant hand. "God, yes," Sherlock mutters, and John laughs weakly, wings cupping air to help support his newly wobbly legs.

"Come here, you," he gasps, tugging Sherlock to his feet and pushing him up against the enormous carved newel post at the base of the grand central staircase. "God, let me taste you," and he presses against him, pulling his head down to meet John's kiss, languid and probing, licking out the taste of himself, savoring the taste of Sherlock. Sherlock's clothing is still damp from the night flight, rubbing cold and rough across John's exposed crotch and thighs.

Sherlock reaches behind John's shoulder, grips hard on the upper leading edge of his wings, the _propatagium_… having long ago lost his fear of damaging them. He pushes down, "Do it, do it," he repeats under his breath, and John obliges, allows massive arched wings to catch air as he drops to his knees. He keeps them aloft and outstretched, so that Sherlock can see them and touch them as John sucks his cock.

John quickly opens Sherlock's trousers. No pants, of course, simply the flushed length of him bobbing outwards into John's cupped hands, and John gives his giant wings an extra flick as he licks up the length of it, from scrotum to the slit at the top, sucking free the brackish drop of fluid at the crown. He stares up at his lover and friend, letting golden brown wings flutter shut and open again, angled to keep from brushing the floor, and Sherlock's fingers slide from the propatagium through the coverts, groaning in relief and profound pleasure, as John begins to bob his head, one hand carefully around the base of Sherlock's erection so as not to choke himself (he is not yet as accomplished at this task as Sherlock, to his chagrin.)

John flicks his tongue as much as he is able, shivering from the feel of Sherlock carding through his wings, faint aftershocks of his own orgasm racing through him unexpectedly, adding a satisfying dimension to the musky, familiar flavor of Sherlock in his mouth. He sweeps his pinky through the prickling crinkle of black hair against his fist and slides his other hand between Sherlock's legs, fondling the bollocks there. Sherlock widens his stance and groans, momentarily clutching too hard at John's wings, slouching back against the newel column as if he can no longer support his own weight. He buries his fists in John's feathers; the wings are lifted and flared, and John's face is lost in their shadow. Sherlock smells of the fog, the cold country air, the heavy, humid odor of his arousal, elemental and complex; and John breathes it in through his nose, working hard to bring Sherlock the completion he'd just enjoyed.

Sherlock groans and adjusts his legs again. John can feel the trembling in his thighs, a precursor to orgasm, and sucks harder, tongue flicking and stabbing under the flared corona, washing across the smooth surface of his cock, coaxing out the final pleasure. Sherlock moans a rousing orchestral climax, and John's mouth fills with hot semen, salty and bitter and chalky, coating his tongue, tasting of love and trust, of pleasure and fun, of commitment and reassurance.

John swallows it down, holds Sherlock's cock in his mouth for a minute afterward, catching the remaining pulses as they slow down, holds it cradled between his lips as it softens. Sherlock straightens his body, hands sliding to John's neck, to curl around his ears and thread through his hair, pulling his head back and tilting it upwards so they can look at one another.

John surges to his feet and grins against Sherlock's lips, laughing because both of them are standing in the great foyer of a grand old mansion, trousers around their ankles, foreign and impossible wings stretching from wall to wall.

Sherlock laughs right back at him, chuckling in his lovely, deep baritone, thick as honey and deep as magic. "I love flying with you, Sherlock," John whispers.

Sherlock agrees, "Yes, John. There is little that I love better," which is as good as an _I love you_ and that's how John interprets it.

Sherlock fell to his death not two weeks later. ...

When John opens his eyes again, his face is caught between strain and joy, cherishing the memory, and his eyes are momentarily blurry and wet, heart clenching in something resembling fear. _Sherlock_, he thinks.

Griffin decides he's not paying sufficient attention to her, and swoops off the mantel, landing unerringly on his keyboard, obscuring the screen, wings battering his face and hands, delicate paws stamping a deliberately brutish march across the keys, wreaking havoc on his document. He smiles, a little sadly, and slides the computer out from under her, putting it on the floor next to the chair. He leans back, stroking the purring cat between her wings, which she loves, and closes his eyes. He wonders how long he must wait before the other egg hatches.

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><p><strong>End note: <strong>A LONG time ago, I was musing over a house griffin, and asked if anyone wanted to draw one for me, and KayJayKayMe and JillandSarah both had pictures within something like an hour. (If you search on my Tumblr page for "house griffin" you'll find them.) I fell in love with the idea, and wanted to put it into the next story. Now, obviously, I changed the griffin aspect to a mere cat with wings (don't want to stretch the bounds of credibility now, do I?) but I include the art nonetheless, because it's _so_ inspirational and fun.


	3. Quickening

This one's super short, y'all, so I'm posting it and the next at the same time. Hooray for you all: my beach vacay gift to you! ScienceofObsession beta'd both of these, and you can thank her for the consistency of plot and viewpoints! (Also, to answer your question, Anon171717: I shall STRIVE to update every two weeks.)

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Quickening<strong>

It is late in April. British weather today is surprising in its mildness, and John is wearing only a jumper when he ventures outdoors for a spot of tea in the sun. He sits on a bench in Regents Park, only a few blocks away from the flat, and holds the cup in both hands, basking in the warmth felt at the tips of his fingers. He leans his head back and sighs, eyes drifting shut. The sun filters redly through his eyelids, heats the tip of his nose, and a faint smile flickers across his face.

The noises of the park at noon are soothing and familiar. Squealing shouts from the preschoolers, frantic in the grass to burn off the energy of an entire winter cooped inside. Low laughter from mothers and nannies, having their grown-up conversations on the sidelines, watching over their charges. The brisk tap of business shoes as lunchers power walk down the broad paths. The honking of ducks and geese, squabbling at the shore as they jostle for bread. The rapid _thump-thump-thump_ of joggers.

John rests his cup more comfortably against his middle, and doesn't stiffen at all when one pair of footsteps comes to rest beside his bench and a body is carefully lowered beside him, causing the weathered wooden slats to dip alarmingly.

The newcomer says nothing, breathing silently, fidgeting slightly, and the rustle of fabric combines with the shifting of the bench to betray that he is crossing and recrossing his legs. A muted click on the concrete below settles what John had already been able to discern from the subtle waft of expensive cologne. He relishes his small moment of power, however, and stubbornly keeps from acknowledging his companion.

At this intriguing moment, however, there is a flurry of hissing and squawking from his left, and the terrified shriek of a child. John's head snaps forwards and he opens his eyes to see a harried mother picking up her crying toddler. The young boy angrily throws his last handful of crackers at a large white goose, and John relaxes as he sees that no harm has been done. He turns to his right.

"Hallo, Mycroft," he says pleasantly.

"Dr. Watson," replies Mycroft Holmes, as formal as ever. His features seem to have sharpened even more over the winter; hooked nose and piercing grey eyes. Even his smile is sharp, a tri-cornered, rather insincere thing, sitting uncomfortably on his austere face. He clasps his hands over the handle of his umbrella and looks away at the lake.

"Lovely weather, isn't it?" John blandly asks, just to be irritating.

Mycroft's face begins to twitch into a small frown, but is quickly smoothed out in a haughty, manufactured serenity. "Indeed," he replies. "Although, in spite of the favorable climate, I am surprised to see you so far from home."

John frowns. "I'm not 'that far from home'," he says mildly. I'm at the park around the corner. Been using CCTV to keep track of my comings and goings?"

Mycroft gives him a repressive look, and John glances away, stifling a smirk. After a moment, though, he has an uncomfortable thought. "You've not got anything in the flat, right? You agreed-"

"Of course not, Dr. Watson," Mycroft interrupts smoothly. "After the… realization… er..."

John flushes to the roots of his hair. His ears burn and he suddenly rather wishes it were windy and freezing again. His fingers clench around the cooling cardboard of his cup, and he awkwardly clears his throat.

"Quite," he says quickly.

There is a mass fluttering beside them as an old woman on the next bench over tries to feed the pigeons. She is successful only for a moment before the geese come charging over. Mycroft keeps his eyes fixed on the avian kerfuffle. "I'm glad we were able to come to a mutual arrangement that would leave me well-informed on my brother's…. status."

John frowns. "So why are you here now?"

Mycroft shifts, tapping the umbrella tip twice between smart leather shoes. "Your last report suggested that the date for… Sherlock's arrival… is nigh."

John implies a shrug with his mouth, and his eyebrows go up. "I've just come to the park for a bit of a walk, Mycroft. Nothing was happening when I left: nothing's happened yet at all. I don't think you need to worry."

Mycroft slides him a sidelong glance and purses his lips. A breeze kicks up and blows his thinning hair awry on his forehead. He says nothing.

John sighs. Mycroft is often a git, but his concern is real. His whole-hearted relief when he had realized that John was guarding an egg was so profound and strongly-felt that both men had been rather more uncomfortable with one another since. He offers, "As much as I can monitor through the shell shows that he's in good health. The temperature remains constant, the heart-rate is within acceptable range, internal movement seems regular, although it is, of course, slowing down as he grows."

Mycroft's desperation to provide his brother with only the best clashes with his need to protect Sherlock's future secrets. They don't know exactly _what_ will hatch out of that lovely mottled shell, but they're both certain that no outsiders should know about it. So John remains in charge, and he's thankful he's a doctor, or he's certain Mycroft would have had him whisked out of the way and the egg relocated to a location he deemed _safe_.

"I wonder if I shouldn't-" Mycroft begins.

"Nope," John cuts him off sharply and with authority. "You should not. I'll be there, and that's all that Sherlock will need at that time. Hatching is a very disorienting process, and he'd not thank me for letting anyone else witness it."

John knows that Sherlock had never liked Mycroft to see him vulnerable. Even in the days of his terrible addiction and the arduous process of cleaning him up, he had never allowed Mycroft to visit him in the hospitals. Mycroft could pay for it all, of course. But he could not see Sherlock when he felt unguarded.

"Very well," he says at last, uncertainty underlying his customary stiffness. "I must bow to your judgment in this matter." His face has taken on a sour cast, and John stifles a laugh. He knows enough about Mycroft to understand that he is an extremely powerful man, and cannot help but enjoy being an occasional impediment to his omnipotence. "You will find that your account has been replenished. Pray use it for anything Sherlock, or you, might need. And I expect to be notified as soon as you think something may be happening."

Mycroft smoothly rises, and John startles and then stands up as well. He thrusts his hand out for a shake, and smiles awkwardly. "Thank you," he says. Once Mycroft had found out about Sherlock, he no longer made a secret of paying the rent, and had made no bones about the money appearing in John's account. John is not sure if that makes him a kept man, or if it is some kind of bribe to keep his mouth shut and be a good egg-nanny, or if Mycroft simply feels that John is a poor provider. Which he is, of course. Because he would be damned if he would wander out for days at a time doing locum work when the egg might encounter some crisis that could require his intervention. Not that he knows what he could do. Probably there are not incubators big enough for a full-grown man-embryo. Although, if anyone could requisition one, it would be Mr. British Government Himself, no doubt.

Nonetheless, John finds it physically uncomfortable to be away from the egg for any substantial duration. Mycroft need not have worried that he would stay at the park for too long. He has learned that he has a bit over an hour before the ache in his chest grows too strong to ignore, and his thoughts return to Sherlock, and the egg, and his feet make their way back to Baker Street before his brain even catches up to the message.

He dumps his cold tea in a bin as he hurries home, and then rubs his chest absently until he is back in the flat, secure behind closed doors, bustling to the bedroom to check on the egg. It has been well-guarded in his absence, as he knew it would be. Griffin is stretched on top of it, wings lazily sloping along the curve of the shell, tip of her tail raised in an inquisitive crook when John enters.

He gives her a smile and a slow blink, acknowledging her post as guardian, and is solemnly blinked at in return. He toes off his shoes and climbs into bed, arranging his pillows next to the egg. Griffin hops into his lap, curling there with the gaspy noise that counts as her meow, and John rests one hand on the egg and the other on her head.

Not much longer now.


	4. The Awakening

The _adorable _art for this chapter was drawn by Stitchy, who did it positively _months_ ago, and I'm so happy to finally be able to use it. Y'all enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: The Awakening<strong>

(Sherlock's POV)

He has been aware for some time. Just gentle warmth, and a gradual sense of cramping. Light can penetrate his world, darkness shifting to a mellow glow in comforting circadian rhythms. Sometimes shadows pass across the wall, between him and the source of the light. A dark patch may appear, something he instinctively identifies as _hand_, always accompanied by a soft voice; gentle taps and rockings of his shell. This is the Big One, and he will shift, sometimes, until he can press his cheek, or his own hand against the soft wall, and feel that spot of warmth bleed through.

Often, he can feel the Small One, too. It nestles, usually at the bottom of Sherlock's world, and he can feel a soft, buzzing rumble. Sometimes, sharp claws scratch at his shell, and sometimes Sherlock scratches back, in a tolerant, unhurried fashion.

He doesn't know who he is, who he was, or what the shadows outside his small warm world mean; and he doesn't care. Now is a time for growth, and rest, a time for the mind to be quiescent, observing without analysis; slowly opening up to a larger, complex and appealing existence.

But something is changing lately. The languor and peace morph into itching and annoyance. He no longer has to move to press his cheek to the wall, and his knees are always jammed against his nose, and his arms begin to cramp, until he feels that he must get out, must escape, must... _stretch_.

He begins to rock, and struggle, using bony knees and elbows to their best advantage. He throws back his head, barely enough fluid remaining now to offer resistance, and pushes outward with his legs. He tears at the membraneous curtain that surrounds him with his claws, impatient, kicking rhythmically with feet that hardly have space to maneuver.

The darkness outside his shell changes instantly to light, and the shadows are back, sillhouetted against his walls. A familiar voice speaks in quick cadence, excited and worried, and he... he… he _yearns_ for it. For the voice, and the light. He yearns for space to breathe, and data to fill his brain. He resonates with the need to connect, the intense desire to shatter the barrier between himself and the Presence on the other side. He struggles more, pushes harder, retracts his claws and balls up his fists, punching out again and again against the weakening walls.

The shell has thinned over the last few months as he drew its calcium into his own bones, lengthening and strengthening them. And the leaching of power if effective, as it usually is in a hatching, the strength having been transferred from the shell to the entity inside, and his fist breaks through, pushing against the stretchy membrane. The voice is suddenly closer, making soft shushing noises, and his hand is grabbed and held.

Unnerved, he quickly unsheathes his claws, striking out, and the flexible white wall before him parts in four fusiform windows to the outside world. The entity which had tried to hold his hand jerks its appendage back quickly with a harsh-sounding exclamation, and Sherlock feels a ghostly twinge of pain across the back of his hand.

He freezes for a moment, as does the Big One outside. But then the voice is crooning at him again, and there's a gentle tapping against the crown of the egg, far away from the hole he's made. He tears at the lining again, shredding it until it falls out of his way, and sticky albumen dribbles out as he pushes against the bright hole, expanding it, knocking large pieces of shell away with feet and hands, thrashing at hard calcium with eager desperation.

The egg creaks and groans, and bright lines highlight growing cracks spinning to all sides of Sherlock's warm, dark little world. With a last heave, the walls break away in jagged plates, and he rocks to a surprised standstill, eyes shut against the bright light, coughing and breathing air for the first time.

He sits, knees drawn up and held in with his arms, exposed and shivering and wet, momentarily too traumatized by the dramatic change in his environment to make a further motion. He huddles in on himself, recognizing subconsciously that his body is already taking up more space than when he'd been crammed inside his shell. With his head tucked down, ears held flat, he slits his eyes open against the light. They won't focus at first, and a dark shape looms nearby. He hisses and pulls back, claws out, unnerved and bewildered.

The crooning voice picks up again, recedes as the figure moves backward. Sherlock knows that voice, knows that _essence_ in front of him, knows it as the Big One. He can feel the Little One nearby as well, and understands vaguely that it is counterproductive to be afraid. Love and worry layer over him, laced with excitement and a curious battle-ready alertness. He blinks several times, and snaps his head to the left when something bumps against his thigh.

The Little One is there, fearless and curious. She is small, furred and bewinged, plumy tail impishly held high. She noses his leg again, and then sets to work licking, as if unwilling to be daunted by the enormous task set before her. Her contented vibrations feed through his skin and nerves and are soothing. He reaches down with one hand, claws sheathed, and offers it to her. She sniffs, interested, and licks his sticky fingers with a rough, welcoming tongue. He scratches the crown of her head and then turns to look again at the other.

He stands near the door, a man whose stature is increased by the size of the broad brown and gold wings held high behind him. His hands are held open at his sides, unthreatening, and concern and love radiate from him. Sherlock relaxes, feels his ears prick forward in interest and acceptance, and opens his eyes wide at the man.

"Sherlock," he murmurs, slowly approaching. "Do you know me? Are you alright?" His eyes are luminous, and overflow with intermittent falling streaks of water. Sherlock can smell the salt of his sweat, a hint of blood from the clawed back of his hand, the taste of midnight breath, the underlying musk which permeates the den in which he sits. It smells familiar, and reassuring, and Sherlock's ears flicker as his eyes open wider.

He tilts his head, and the man bares his teeth in a what Sherlock recognizes as a _smile_. "You've put your claws away. That's good, Sherlock. I'd hate to have a scuffle on your first day home." His enormous wings flutter and stretch for a moment before he comes a few steps closer, hand outstretched. "Can I touch you? Can you understand me?"

Sherlock understands, but cannot access a route by which he can respond. He reaches out with his own hand instead, eager, and feels compelled to action as soon as warm, sturdy fingers curl around his own. He lurches forward, clumsy and unbalanced, and the man startles as he's pulled to meet Sherlock. He aims his falling self for the bed, and they tumble together there, on damp towels and sharp shards of shell.

Sherlock rolls them over and pins the man down, nuzzling into his neck, suddenly desperate for connection: an agonizing need fills him to touch and taste and smell and _bind_. So he follows the dictates of instinct. He rubs his face into the man's neck, licks at the salt of his skin, sucks on a spot under his ear with a tiny, repetitive motion, and his hands knead the man's shoulders. Sherlock crawls across his captive until he straddles his thighs, knees shuffling on top of brown feathers and John makes a pained face. The wings that are crushed under the pair of them disappear. Sherlock startles, but decides to ignore it, buries his face against warm skin, body and spirit singing _Home, home, home!_

Strong arms fold securely around his back, rub his freezing, wet skin, and the body under him huffs in surprise and joy. "Look at you, Sherlock. Look at you. What the _fuck_ is this?"

Sherlock recognizes that the words are violent, but the tone is not, the man is _laughing_, stroking down his back and ribs until roughened fingertips reach the base of his spine, follow it up as it arches into his waving tail. "I didn't see this coming," he murmurs, hand curled around Sherlock's tail, following it to the tip and releasing there. His other hand moves to Sherlock's head, fondles the twitching ears that poke from his hair, thumb and forefinger on either side of thin, velvety skin.

Sherlock lets him touch, contented, burrowing into his familiar warmth, the smell of their den, the solid feel of the body pressed against his own. Little One settles lightly on his back with a soft rustle of feathers, and begins to work on cleaning the base of his neck, which makes Sherlock's eyes open in surprise. He shivers at the unexpected touch, and feels his skin roughen and twitch in an effort to shake off the cold air prickling at his wet body.

"Sherlock," says the man, pushing lightly at his shoulders. "Sherlock, do you remember me? John? I'm John. Here," he pushes again until Sherlock reluctantly lifts himself up and looks at his face. "Remember?" Sherlock runs that sound through his mind: _Djawwnn_... but it means nothing. It is, however, a pleasant sound, and he rumbles his approval even as his eyes reveal nothing. 'John' sighs, and pushes at him again, struggling to sit up. "Well, hopefully it'll come with time."

He lays his hand over Sherlock's forehead, and frowns a bit. "You're awfully warm, Sherlock. Jolly nice and warm to me right now, but I don't think it's ideal for you. Running a fever, I think. I don't remember reading about that." He slips out from under Sherlock and crosses over to the dresser, picking up a notebook. He flips through the pages rapidly, eyes darting back and forth. "No fever with me, though. Huh." John opens a kit on the dresser and comes out with an object hidden in the curl of his fist. "Open up, Sherlock, I want to stick this under your tongue." He comes closer and cups his hand around Sherlock's jaw, tugging gently to have him lower it.

Sherlock isn't fond of being handled in this manner, and he hisses a little as he pulls back, away from John's hand. John immediately looks apprehensive, and his eyes flash down to Sherlock's hands. Checking for claws, no doubt. Sherlock obligingly pushes them out, and it appears to be adequate warning.

John huffs a little, "Alright. No thermometer, then," he acquiesces. He puts his hand on Sherlock's skin again, however. "It's definitely a fever, though. I'd say over 38°C for sure." He leans forward to peer into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stares back, interested in the round shape and deep blue of the eyes looking at him so penetratingly. "I'll keep an eye on that. Well, let's try cleanliness first, that ought to appeal to you. Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you into the shower, clean you up a bit and dry you off."

Sherlock lets himself be guided, and stands on wobbly legs, somehow intensely surprised to find that he's looking _down_ on his companion, whose presence feels so large to Sherlock on an emotional level. He has to stand still for a moment, leaning heavily on a sturdy shoulder. He stares at the intriguing hair below his chin, yellow and gray and brown, soft and inviting. He dips his head and rests his face against that hair, gentle as a phantasm, scarcely stirring a one of them, and he breathes in that lovely smell, almost warm enough to combat the chill in the air. But not quite. He violently shivers again, and John grunts.

"Fever. Really, Sherlock, you need to let me use the thermometer. Think about it. For now, why don't you try to walk. This way." Thus coaxed, Sherlock slowly makes his way into a hall, and thus into a very small, tiled room. The _bathroom_. John props him against a wall and goes to fiddle with handles of what Sherlock somehow knows is the _shower_. There is a large mirror in front of him, and he stares, seeing himself for the first time.

His figure in the reflection is long and lean, a study in light and shadow. His shoulders are narrow, hips slimmer still, and a scattering of black hair dusts his chest and trails down to the thatch at his pubis. His tail twitches behind him, curling around his hips and dropping to his thighs, the soft fur of it clumped and sticky from the egg. His face is pale and long, wide across the temples and sharply angled cheekbones, then tapering to a point at the chin. His lips are blanched, barely discernible from the skin of his face, except for the sharp delineation of his upper lip, parted on the philtrum that leads up to his nose. The hair on his head is just as dark as the rest, gooey and snarled, some parts beginning to dry and lifting in wayward curls.

His triangular ears are perched atop his head, poking jauntily from his hair, flickering towards John, the mirror, and the hall in turn, as small noises register from around the flat. One swivels to the left as pipes in the wall begin to groan and complain, and he can detect the damp, metallic odor of the hot water beginning to pour into the shower. John straightens with an inarticulate murmur and turns back to Sherlock. His face is round and ruddy from the steam, navy eyes bright with joy and relief. He smiles, and it ignites him, brightening him until Sherlock wants to curl around the incandescence of his person and simply bask.

John urges him into the shower, holding his elbow while he steps across the boundary of the tub, as if he cannot be relied upon to do it himself. Sherlock makes a characteristically disdainful huff, but does not speak, still has no access to language, although he understands most of what John says.

"Can you wash?" John asks carefully, eyes glued to Sherlock's own. "I can come in with, if that would be alright?" He hesitates standing back a bit, and his hand fiddles with the neck of the T-shirt he is wearing. His expression is reserved and nervous.

Sherlock does not require words for this, he simply reaches out and tugs the man forward. The closer John is, the better he feels. His face folds into a petulant frown, wanting John nearer him _right now_.

John laughs, merry once again, and pulls his shirt over his head one-handed, pushing down soft pants simultaneously with the other. "I'm rather sticky as well," he admits cheerfully. "Not such a tidy thing, hatching. Although I'll certainly give it points over childbirth."

Sherlock does not really follow that, and does not actually care. He moves under the stream of water and relaxes immediately as the heat and gentle massage of it encompass him. He closes his eyes and flattens his ears to keep water from drilling into them. Tipping his head downwards keeps his mouth from filling as he breathes, and he simply stands there for a few minutes.

John lets him, waiting patiently in the other half of the shower, hit only with the cold dots of water which bounce off of Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's tail hangs straight down, the tip of it curling in a pool of water at his feet.

After a moment, John reaches past Sherlock for a bottle, and pours some gel in his hand. "Shall I?" he asks quietly. Sherlock, unsure what he's about to do, remains quiet, ears pricked forward, and waits. John rubs his hands together and touches Sherlock's shoulders, hands slick with a pleasant-smelling substance, _body wash_, that he proceeds to rub gently onto Sherlock's skin, small hands rubbing deftly down the length of his arms, twining through his fingers, back up the underside to tickle in his armpits.

Sherlock growls under his breath and steps back a bit. He doesn't like that sensation, and John laughs. "Sorry," he breathes. "Sorry. I forgot that you hated that. Ticklish, isn't it? Here, can you make your claws come out? The ones you used to get out of your egg?" He cautiously stands back, and Sherlock unsheathes his claws, holding one hand out for inspection.

John takes it in both of his own, exclaiming in surprise, pleasantly impressed. "Wow, these are long and _sharp_, aren't they now? You could do a lot of damage…." Sherlock notes a bandage wrapped haphazardly around John's hand and considers that he's perhaps already done some damage with them. He recalls the scent of blood from his hatching.

He stares down at his hand. Each claw has replaced its human fingernail, is solid and sturdy, rounded and curved and about six centimeters long. John holds one carefully between his thumb and forefinger and tugs gently, squeezing and then running his finger to the point, pressing against it to test its sharpness and strength. There is some give, as it flexes in its bed, but the material itself is unyielding and the lethal potential is evident. John rubs some soap on both hands, getting the claws as well, and then pats Sherlock on the forearm. "All done with that. Better put them away now. I've no desire to be cut to ribbons before you remember me."

Sherlock retracts his claws and looks curiously at his hands when they've withdrawn. Flat, oval, _human_ nails tip his fingers now. He frowns at them, and flicks his ears forward in interest. But John has replenished his soap, and urges Sherlock to turn around, begins to rub over his shoulders, neck and back. The process takes longer than it should, as John makes multiple passes over the same spot. His fingers begin to dig in, in spots and swirls, rather than the flattened palm of his hand, and Sherlock leans back into the caresses, which feel good. Very good.

John slowly makes his way down, thumbs working under Sherlock's scapulae, fingers sweeping firmly down his ribs until he reaches the protrusions of Sherlock's hips and curls his hand around the jut of bone, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of Sherlock's spine, drawing out circles with slowly increasing circumferences. That. That feels the best yet. Sparks shoot up Sherlock's spine, and his blood seems to turn viscous, warm and slow. Lassitude overwhelms him.

He promptly leans forward, supporting himself against the tiles with his forearms, head bent down under the falling water, and pops his hips upwards into John's touch. A contented rumble grows in his chest for a moment before its released, the song of his pleasure, loud and raspy and aggressive. He can feel the vibrations of it through all of his body, especially chest and throat, and that feels right: very right.

The hands on his back freeze, and Sherlock can hear hitching breath near his shoulder. Slowly, John's touch makes its way to the base of his spine, where his tail begins, and he scratches just above it. "Sherlock," John says, voice filled with delight. "Sherlock. Are you _purring?_"

Sherlock turns his head and slants a disgusted look over his shoulder at his companion. He assumes that John is referring to his vocalized contentment, and the answer should be quite obvious, so there's no need to respond, even if he could. He allows the volume of the purr to decline a little, as a hint to John not to stop his attentions. John clearly receives that message, and continues lightly scratching at the base of Sherlock's tail. The appendage begins to twitch and lift, and the rumbling purr grows in volume, as Sherlock pushes back harder into John's hands, wiggling his hips, feeling an unnameable _urge_.

John's breathing has sped up, Sherlock can feel it on his back, air turning quickly cold in between the drops from the shower overhead. His hands curl around Sherlock's hips and hold him still. "Ok, stop, Sherlock. Hold on. Wait a minute." He rubs his hands briskly up Sherlock's flanks. "This isn't the right time- Oh, _god_. Not good timing, Sherlock. You can't even _speak_."

Sherlock growls in frustration, and works his shoulders, feeling pressure and _annoyance_.

There's a quiet _foomp_ and something happens back there, in the region of his shoulders. John gives an aborted shout and jumps back against the far wall. "_Fuck-_" he gasps. Sherlock snarls and whirls around, switching from lazy arousal to defensive aggression. He catches sight of something dark behind him, turns his head to track it, mind warning _danger_: and with that thought, the presence behind him _moves_. He jerks away as black wings fan out, pushing aside the shower curtain so that cold air rushes in, and water from the shower falls out.

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><p><strong>AN:** I realize this ending feels very abrupt. There's a reason, and you'll have to wait for the next chapter to see why. Meanwhile, of course, please accept my apologies! Until next time, my friends...


	5. Getting Used to It All

Thanks as always to ScienceofObsession and Snogandagrope for lightning-fast turnaround, and thanks to Kayjaykayme for her most beautiful artwork. Y'all need to love these three as much as I do!

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: Getting Used to It All<strong>

There's a quiet _foomp_ and something happens back there, in the region of Sherlock's shoulders. John gives an aborted shout and jumps back against the far wall. "_Fuck_-" he gasps.

Sherlock snarls and whirls around, switching from lazy arousal to defensive aggression. He catches sight of something dark behind him, turns his head to track it, mind warning of _Danger:_ and with that thought, the presence behind him _moves_. He jerks away as black wings fan out, pushing aside the shower curtain so that cold air rushes in and water from the shower falls out.

One of the wings crashes across John's face as he begins to duck, hand coming up to protect himself, and Sherlock hisses in shock, turning further: yet the wings are always behind him, noisily flapping, and water is everywhere. Sherlock's tail gets caught under John's foot as John steps forward to help, and Sherlock _yowls_, which he feels is very inappropriate but can't help himself, in his shock. He staggers away from John, who is hopping on one foot, trying to regain his balance after treading on Sherlock's tail, and the wings are threatening in his peripheral vision.

Sherlock lurches away from it all, knocks the shower head awry, grabs at slick plastic and falls over the edge of the tub, bringing the wet curtain down with him in a glorious crash. The rattle of water hitting the plastic as he lies on the cold tile floor is too loud, and puddles are forming under him, and he's tangled in the damned curtain, thrashing.

"Sherlock. _Sherlock! _ Stop moving. _Stop_. It's ok. It's all right." John's voice begins in a commanding, loud tone, and gradually softens into his recognizable egg croon. There's a grating squeak as he turns the faucet off, and water stops beating all around Sherlock on the floor. "It's ok, Sherlock. Don't move. Let me get you out of there."

Sherlock struggles to suppress panicked instinct with rationality, and goes still, only his ears and the tip of his tail twitching feverishly. He can feel motion against his back, still, and flinches minutely, repeatedly, worried about what it could be, what threat it represents. He feels utterly disoriented and afraid.

John steps over the wall of the tub and crouches next to Sherlock. "I'm getting the curtain off, Sherlock. You've got wings. I think you must not have known that. You've got beautiful black… _wet_… wings, right here on your back. They're _yours_, Sherlock. It's just you. It's all you. You need to calm down."

Sherlock realizes that he's been growling and hissing under his breath, and with some effort, manages to quiet himself.

"Claws," John reminds him. Sherlock sheaths the talons at the tips of his fingers, stops scratching fissures through the curtain. John's careful hands untangle the wet material, and black feathers flash again behind Sherlock's back.

Now that Sherlock has had a moment to recover, he can feel the wings' point of attachment, feel the unconscious messages he is sending them. He gives them an experimental shake; and water flies around the room and John jerks back with a gasping laugh as feathers drag across his face.

"Hold on, Sherlock. Wait a minute. _Wait,_ dammit! This room is too small. Here: can we get you up? Can you stand?"

Sherlock turns over and accepts John's offered hand, glad of the assistance in rising. He feels unsteady, unbalanced, and the wings behind him have a mind of their own, flaring out to compensate for his dizziness, which makes him startle, which makes them flap even more, sweeping a cup on the sink to the floor in a symphony of shattering glass. John steps close and wraps an arm around Sherlock, pinning down the wings, and uses his free hand to cover Sherlock's eyes. He pulls Sherlock's head down, into the crook of his shoulder, and then wraps Sherlock in a firm hug, holding everything still, clamping arms and wings tightly to his torso.

"Stay _still_, Sherlock, for god's sake. You're tearing up the room and you're going to hurt yourself. _Shhhh_. Be still."

Sherlock huddles close to the man, the warm body, strong and solid and so _certain_ against his own. He closes his eyes tightly, can feel his wings straining against John's grip, and his tail is still lashing. He flexes his claws out and then back in, momentarily grateful that he hasn't accidentally done any damage to John. John is sturdy and patient. Sherlock can feel John's racing heart against his own ribs, gradually slowing down, and Sherlock's slows down beside it, desperately clutching at the intangible connection between them, until they are both breathing normally. Sherlock notices the cold, and shivers, pressing tighter against John, who nuzzles up against his hair, chin fleetingly against his arched neck.

"You okay now?" John asks, quietly, a simple murmur, so gentle. "I'm gonna let go and get you a towel. All right?"

Sherlock lifts his dripping head and nods, feeling bereft and vulnerable when John drops his arms and turns to get a towel off the rack on the wall. He wipes off Sherlock's face, running the soft fabric briskly through his hair, carefully dabbing in his flickering ears, and mops up the water sliding down his neck. He rubs Sherlock's chest and belly dry, and then urges him to turn.

"Look," he says encouragingly, pointing to a mirror above the sink. "Look. Do you see your wings?" He gingerly pats them dry with the towel and Sherlock stands sideways, looking at the black things on his back. They are smaller than the ones he saw on John when he first hatched. They extend to the mid-thigh, no further. He _stretches_, and the wings lift, flaring outward, sweeping through the sink and brushing an electric razor off the small counter with a clatter. There is a flashing of white on the underside of each wing, a surprising gracenote in a field of black.

John, meanwhile, is patting down his sides, across his buttocks, and slides the towel down the full length of his tail, holding it lightly in his closed fist, finishing by quickly rubbing both legs dry. He wraps the damp towel around Sherlock's waist, tucking in the end so that it doesn't slip down, and then hurriedly dries himself off with the other one.

He pulls a green terry dressing gown off the hook on the door and slips it on, belting it tightly. He indicates another, a blue one, and says, "Sherlock? Can you make your wings go away? I can't get this on you until you do."

Sherlock moves his shoulders and his back, but his wings remain stubbornly _there_. He gives John a confused look, helpless to control the wings, and John just nods a bit. "All right then," he says. "Lets go get you some pants, at least." He tosses his own towel onto the floor, flooded with water, and sweeps it around to soak up some of the excess. He tosses the shower curtain and rod into the tub to deal with later. "It's almost 5 in the morning. We ought to crawl into bed for a while, see if we can sleep."

Sherlock mutely follows him back to the bedroom. John stops on the way through the kitchen and starts a kettle for tea before pulling Sherlock behind him. He rummages in a drawer and stands back up with pants and track bottoms. "Put these on, then. That'll warm you up a bit. We'll do a shirt later, when you figure out your wings. And I'll tidy up the bed."

Sherlock has no idea what to do with the mound of soft fabric John has handed to him, and stares at it, frustrated and impatient. Electric rivulets of fear still run through his blood. This whole hatching thing has been extremely disconcerting. He knows for certain that he dislikes _not knowing_ very intensely. He growls a little, and John turns around, having stripped the damp blankets and sheets off the bed, along with the pieces of shell.

John uses the bundle to push other bits of shell into a corner of the room, where he dumps his armful. "Here." John brushes his palms against his thighs and lifts his eyebrows, "Come here. Do you need help?"

Sherlock glares at him, ears back and tail swishing. John grins. "Just keep your claws in, yeah?" He comes over and shakes out the items, guiding Sherlock's legs up and into the holes that appeared. John gets them up to Sherlock's thighs before he realizes the tail is in the way. "We can stuff it down one leg," he muses; but the fur on Sherlock's tail is puffed out and it waves in warning, so John negates that thought. He pulls the clothing up until it brushes against the base of the tail, and Sherlock growls, pushing the fabric back down. "Uh. All right then," John concedes, sounding puzzled. "We'll just. You can just sleep in the buff. You're used to that, anyway."

Having given up, putting the clothes back where he got them, John nudges Sherlock against the dresser, out of the way as he makes the bed. Bright eyes peer down from the top of the wardrobe, where Griffin is watching the commotion with interest.

The kettle whistles in the kitchen, and John nods at the pillows: "Go curl up. I'll be back with your tea in a mo."

Sherlock cautiously approaches the bed, beginning to relax in the smell of his den, but still wary after the adrenaline ride in the bathroom. There's a scrabble and a flutter, and a shape launches from the top of the wardrobe to his left. Sherlock ducks, wings out, claws emerged and hissing. The shape banks to the right, avoiding him, and lands abruptly on the bed, resolving itself into the winged Little One. She looks surprised, but her ears and whiskers are forward, and it is obvious that her intent is affectionate and playful. Sherlock relaxes, and goes to sit beside her.

She immediately pushes into his lap, warm nose in his side, tail high and happy. She begins to vibrate, and shoves her two front feet into the soft skin of Sherlock's belly, kneading first one then the other. He relaxes further, and strokes his fingers across the top of her head, recognizing their similarities and differences. The ears, the tails, the wings: all the same. The rumbling satisfaction they emanate also seems similar; and earlier John had remarked on it with surprise, meaning it is not a characteristic that he shares.

John returns with two mugs of tea and a small package tucked under one arm. "Budge up, then," he smiles at Sherlock, pulling back the duvet and stacking a couple pillows, placing his items on the nightstand. John tosses his dressing gown onto a chair in the corner and slips into some soft nightclothes before he joins Sherlock on the bed.

Sherlock, comfortably naked, crawls to the head of the bed, but finds it quite a task to repose upon the pillows, his wings are frustratingly in the way. John asks a couple times if he can't 'put them away', which just makes Sherlock scowl, so he helps arrange them, so that Sherlock can nestle between them, and the wingtips trail down the bed on either side of his hips. His tail, snaking across one dark wing before wrapping around a thigh, blends in seamlessly with the feathers: the same, inky, depthless black.

John hands him a warm mug, which smells delicious and familiar, and flops next to him, tugging the blanket up until it is snug across their chests, working it under Sherlock's elbows and covering up half his wings. Sherlock lets him fuss, taking a small sip of the 'tea'. It is very good, tastes warm and comforting and strangely of John. He wraps his fingers around it and gives vent to a deep sigh, preparing to relax.

John grins next to him. "Well," he says. "That was exciting. It's certainly not how I'd have predicted the whole hatching thing would go. It hasn't been much… like I remembered mine."

Sherlock huffs at him, as if to say of _course_ it wasn't, when has Sherlock ever been simple and predictable. And John laughs, the message having been successfully transmitted. He pulls the crinkling package from the nightstand and tears it open to reveal biscuits. He takes out a few and hands them over.

"Here," he offers. "These are your favorites." He pauses a moment, watching Sherlock carefully take a small bite out of one, after smelling it first. "You like to dip them in your tea," he says. Sherlock raises one eyebrow, chagrined that this man needs to tell him things about himself. It's… _frustrating_ to be so trapped inside the small confines of his own head.

He closes his eyes, examining his mind. It seems to be a vast room, dimly lit from an unseen source, echoing and empty, corridors lined with firmly closed doors. He grinds his teeth and dunks a biscuit (_mundane!_ his mind's voice scolds, _pedestrian!_) and puts it in his mouth. It is hot, and wet, and dissolves on his tongue, and is pleasurable indeed. He inwardly decides not to hold it against John (... well, too often, anyway) that John has to tell him these sorts of things. Things he feels he should _know_ on his own. Things that could be revealed by opening any of the closed doors in his mind.

He clenches his hand around the mug and takes a drink. Warmth and comfort.

John leans a bit closer, so that his shoulder can brush against Sherlock's, carefully scooping feathers out of his way as he does so. "It's so odd to have you in bed again," he says quietly. "And not. You know. Wrapped up behind an eggshell." He looks at Sherlock, and the light reflects strangely in his eyes, showing the liquid gathered there, growing until it spills over his bottom lid. John gives a shaky smile. "Welcome back, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods a little at him, brows pulled together in soft confusion. He doesn't really understand what John is talking about. It is true that he's out of the egg (and quite relieved to be able to stretch his limbs.) But John seems to be referring to a time prior to being in the egg, when he was… also around?

It doesn't make sense, and so, for the moment, Sherlock lets it go. It's been a draining few hours, and he is exhausted.

He abruptly shoves his half-drunk tea over to John, who twists and puts it on the nightstand next to his shoulder. Sherlock tries to lie down fully and quickly realizes that he must sit up completely, and bump himself downwards in the bed to avoid pulling all his feathers the wrong way and torquing his wings. Finally, he is settled, and drops his head onto the pillow by John's hip, on his side, wings held tightly against his back, tail quiescent beside his leg.

"Ah. Oh. Tired, are you?" John sounds a bit startled at his brusque termination of their interaction. He draws his hand across Sherlock's forehead, smoothing fresh-dried, fuzzy curls off his skin, and then continuing back to his ears, stroking each with firm, curious fingers. Sherlock flicks them away, but his attitude is more sleepy than annoyed, and John smiles down at him, tugging the duvet carefully up to his shoulders. "All right then. Go to sleep." He leans down and kisses Sherlock's head, breath warmly penetrating his hair, bouncing off his skull into the sensitive inner hollows of his ears, causing them to twitch again.

John leans again to turn off the lamp, and then scoots down next to Sherlock, arranging himself under the covers and on his own pillow. Sherlock doesn't give him much time before wiggling closer, pressing his face into the curve of John's neck, wrapping his tail around John's knees as he draws his own up over John's thighs. He lifts his upper body a little as John snakes his arm under his shoulders, careful of the wings, and wraps his arm warmly around Sherlock, cradling him close to John's body.

Sherlock squirms a bit, pushing closer, enveloped in warmth, in the smell of their den, the smell of his companion, feeling pleasantly secured and safe. The rumbling builds up again in his chest, and he releases it, to thrum throughout his body, expressing his comfort and satisfaction. John tenses briefly when he first hears the noisy purr, and then breaks into a smile so broad that Sherlock can feel the change of facial expression in his skin, his jaw, the tension of his neck. "You're purring again, Sherlock. I can get used to this."

Sherlock grumbles a bit through the underlying purr, indicating his belief that John has no choice _but_ to get used to it, and John laughs softly, fingers curling around the ball of his shoulder and other hand crossing his chest to stroke down his arm. "Sleep tight, love," John says. And Sherlock does. Loudly contented.

**SH**

Sherlock wakes in the morning with a jolt, and only survives not falling off the edge of the bed by dint of John's firm hold around his back. John is rubbing across his shoulder blades, and pulls back with a slow smile when Sherlock resettles against him. "Your wings are gone," John says in a raspy morning voice. "You must have withdrawn them in your sleep."

Sherlock casts a quick look over his shoulder, and sees nothing out of the ordinary. John rubs his hand across the top of Sherlock's head, and static electricity bites the tip of one ear. "Ears and tail still present, though. Trust you to be so unique." Sherlock curls the tip of his tail around John's calf and makes a grumpy noise in the back of his throat. John laughs again. "You've always been cat-like. Maybe you're too emotionally attached to your feline side to let the ears go? Or perhaps it's because you don't have human ears to replace them with."

Sherlock says nothing: he doesn't know _what_ to say. He only knows what _is_, which at the moment, is that he is built with a tail and ears that differ from John's. The wings were a surprise, and he's not so sure what he thinks of them. They _were_ a bit unwieldy; so he is content that they vanished during the night. He hopes they're not gone forever, though. He'd like to try some things out.

John's hand continues its circular track, across his shoulders, down his sides, dipping into the sway of his back above his tail, and then looping up again. Sherlock likes the rough texture of his palm, the solid pressure he exerts to avoid what he had called 'tickling' last night in the shower, the affection that seeps through his skin with the prolonged contact. Sherlock brings his own hand up, working it under John's soft shirt, scrubbing across the crisp hairs of John's belly.

John cups one hand around Sherlock's neck. "You still feel way too hot, though, Sherlock. Do you feel all right?"

Sherlock looks at him blankly. He feels the same way he's felt for the past half day, which is all he can recall feeling, so it is really rather a ridiculous question. John notes his feelings from his expression, and grimaces goodnaturedly. "Yeah, yeah, right. How would you know. I'd really like to get a reading on that, though. Let's try the thermometer again, yeah?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he's amenable, and John scurries out of bed, quickly snagging the thermometer from the night before off the dresser before huddling back under the duvet with Sherlock. "Open your mouth, and put it under your tongue." Sherlock does, and John unexpectedly snorts. "Right. And now, _close_ your mouth back up, Sherlock. It doesn't work if your mouth stays open." Sherlock glares, but does as John instructs. The little tool beeps shortly after that, and John takes it out to read it. _101.8__°F / 38.8°C_ the display flashes.

John's face folds into many lines of worry so easily that Sherlock can deduce it is a common expression. "I'll get you some paracetamol," he says, exiting the bed again. He dresses himself, tosses a shirt and a dressing gown onto the bed for Sherlock, and disappears into the kitchen.

The little winged cat lifts her head from the foot of the bed, and she and Sherlock stare at one another for a while, one pair of eyes golden green and very round, the other lucent gray and sharply slanted. She trills a little greeting and picks her dainty way over the rumpled mounds of covers until she gets to Sherlock's chest.

There, she flops down again, little paws lazily pushing into his neck, doing her almost-silent vibrating purr, and Sherlock cannot help but relax. He doesn't smile, not quite, but his ears prick forward and he reaches up to wrap his hand around her resonating ribs, strangely gratified to feel the evidence of her happiness. He likes the feel of her fur under his hand, long and fine. His fingers have slid under her wings, and the feathers on top of them are a similar texture, stiffer, because of the shaft of each feather, but still soft and shiny and _alive_.

John walks back into the room, carrying tea and a small bottle. "That's Griffin, Sherlock. She came after you-... After. I mean. This is the first time you've really met, and I thought I'd make it official." He looks unutterably sad for a moment, but then rallies himself and smiles at both of the creatures on the bed. "She helped to brood your egg, you know. I think she's taken quite a proprietary interest in you."

Sherlock doesn't particularly care about that, but squeezes around delicate ribs anyway, and rumbles a quick purr back at her. _Not_ as thanks, of course, or a greeting. Simply because he chooses to at that moment. Griffin's green eyes are slitted in pleasure, and she pulls back her lip a little so that one tiny fang shows. Sherlock snarls silently back at her, because he's bigger, and it seems rational for her to realize that. Wings stir across the back of his hand, and Griffin nonchalantly turns her head towards John, dismissing Sherlock's little display.

When Sherlock shifts to sit up in bed, the cat launches off his chest, leaving behind little pinpricks of blood, and flutters over to the top of the wardrobe, clearly her preferred perch. John says nothing about the byplay, handing Sherlock a steaming mug and then shaking out two capsules. Sherlock takes them with a certain lack of grace, and climbs off the bed to wrap himself in a silken blue dressing gown in a ritual that feels ingrained and familiar if he doesn't think about it too hard. He follows John into the tiny kitchen, and sits in the chair at the table, pulling his bare feet onto a lower rung, keeping them off the gritty, chilly floor.

John pulls bowls down from an upper shelf and loads them with some food, pouring milk over the lot. "Wheetabix," he says. "I've got a feeling you might want some milk…."

Sherlock curls one lip at him. He's beginning to recognize the cat jokes. John is unashamed and swings into the chair on the other side of the breakfast table. "Now, eat." Sherlock does, managing the mushy grain and thoroughly enjoying the milk, although he'd rather be beaten than allow John to know, so he maintains a haughty attitude even while drinking the last of it straight from the bowl. John grins knowingly.

He feels Sherlock's face again after breakfast, and frowns at the continued heat. "You simply don't _look_ sick," he mutters to himself. "Hmmm."

When they settle in the livingroom, John tries to start language lessons again, beginning, as he remembered from his own hatching, with their names. Sherlock stares at him with a blank face, and John's repetition of _John, Sherlock _begins to sound frail and absurd, each word dropping into the emptiness of the room without recognition. Well, they're recognized, Sherlock certainly can understand language. But the importance of the lesson is utterly disregarded, and Sherlock makes no attempt to repeat the sounds. Out loud. He _did_ repeat the sounds in his head the first time, and feels like that shows adequate effort.

He wanders off in the middle of John's lesson, walking to the window and looking outside.  
>The robe rustles around his legs as his tail tries to swish, and he holds it closed in front, curling his fingers through the silky material. John sighs with frustration. "All right, Sherlock. You win. I can see this is going nowhere."<p>

Sherlock turns and raises a disdainful eyebrow. One corner of John's mouth twitches as he leans back and represses a smile. "All right, then, do you _remember_ anything?"

Sherlock looks back out the window, because he doesn't know how to answer that question. Certainly there is a lot of random information floating around in his head, and he recognizes many things. And yet there is that giant palace in his mind, vast echoing corridors and doors that won't open no matter what he tries. He can sense that there is history and knowledge behind them, and twitches in frustration and impatience.

John moves to stand behind him, presses his cheek fleetingly against Sherlock's shoulder before stepping to the desk and grabbing something. "Here, Sherlock. I'm going to call up your website and my blog. We'll see if it jogs anything loose."

Sherlock reluctantly moves to sit beside John on the sofa. He instinctively dislikes looking ignorant, although, he supposes that if he must, he'd rather look foolish in front of John than anyone else. "Here it is," John says, scooting closer to Sherlock, until their sides are touching. "_The Science of Deduction._ Look familiar? Can you read it?"

Sherlock pulls the screen closer and looks attentively at the display. The black, blue and gray seem distressingly familiar, and thoughts stir in a rattling jumble behind the closed doors in his mind, but nothing comes through. He grunts, frustrated, and John sighs. "Can't read it yet, I guess? Do you recognize this one?" He changes to a different tab. There's a green background here, and a nice, clear picture of John near the top. Sherlock hums recognition.

"Let me tell you about some of your cases, Sherlock. See if it shakes anything loose." John sets the laptop to the side and puts his hands between his knees, watching Sherlock carefully.

"Before, Sherlock, before the egg. You were a detective. A consulting detective, mainly working with Greg Lestrade at the Yard. Remember him?" Sherlock twitches an eyebrow in a 'go on, then' gesture, and John stops trying to get feedback. "I'll start with when we met, then. Mrs. Hudson sent you to the basement one day and you found an egg… ."


End file.
